


Curious

by Rosella92



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-05-04 08:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14588970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosella92/pseuds/Rosella92
Summary: Something was there between Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade - something neither men understood, but was too intense and fascinating to ignore.





	1. Details

Stories; excuses. Shame, trivial matters. Life, all of it. It was in the details that people missed: an unbrushed crumb of food on a lower lip, stray animal hairs near the bottom of a skirt, a stance that suggested long nights spent on a couch. 

The couch in question for this individual was comfortable, but far too small for the man. He had to hunch into himself to get comfortable, falling asleep holding himself as if in comfort. Nights on the aforementioned couch became weeks, then months. The lines on his face grew more pronounced, his legendary patience thinned, and he began to watch other men. Not in a romantic sense, and not in the way someone is trained to watch for suspicious activity, but as if he was gathering his own data. 

Soon it became apparent that he was building a case for every man he encountered, a case built against himself. If the other man was taller than him, he eyed the difference in height. If the man was more affable, or amusing, his eyes would dart around those who laughed, observing their mirth with great interest.

Clearly, the man was gathering evidence; building a case.

The inevitable apex occured when Sherlock casually mentioned something about his violin - Mycroft was listening, but his attention was focused on this man, this fascinating man, whose jaw tightened, whose spine straightened, and who turned to Sherlock with his eyes flashing. 

"Oh, fuck off with your fucking violin. Fuck right the fuck off," Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade spat, and stomped off.

Sherlock froze and watched him go, then narrowed his eyes. "She moved on to the music teacher, then."

Mycroft watched the man go, seeing how his shoulders slumped, indicating guilt at his outburst, and drank in the details. It was odd, this sensation of caring. He felt the tendrils of affection; loyalty, and yes, love for his family, but no one else caused such a reaction in him. Perhaps because watching Lestrade's marriage disintegrate through various signs was a welcome distraction to the reliably dreadful reports Mycroft received on a daily basis. It was, however, undeniably fascinating how invested Mycroft felt in this man's well-being.

A further development occurred when, a month later, Dr. John Watson mentioned in an offhand comment that Lestrade's divorce had gone through. It was after Sherlock had mentioned Lestrade's name as a member of the Yard who was married and therefore not a suspect in his latest case.

"No matter." Sherlock waved his hand around, ever the gesticulating performer. "Lestrade is most assuredly not a murderer."

A correct conclusion, unnecessarily proven by the exposure and arrest of one Mr. Steven Lyons, whose ultimate downfall was setting his sights on adding the younger Holmes to his list of victims. Mycroft had been able to increase the amount of undercover bodyguards around Baker Street without being discovered by the good doctor or Sherlock himself. He'd been congratulating himself on this endeavor by enjoying a leisurely read at the Diogenes Club when he was told that someone had requested his presence in The Stranger's Room.

It was Inspector Lestrade, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze fixed on the floor. Mycroft stood in front of him in silence, observing, until Lestrade lifted his gaze and affixed Mycroft with a stare that was completely and inappropriately unnerving. 

"I wanted..." Lestrade cleared his throat, then continued. "I wanted to apologize to you for my recent behavior. I've already talked to John and Sherlock, but...you've seen me at my worst for a while, and although you could have, you didn't, ah, take measurements to retaliate for..."

"Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft stepped forward, taking in how this caused the other man to take in a deep breath, bracing himself - it was a common reaction to the elder Holmes. "I can assure you that at no point in the time that we have known each other have I entertained the idea of causing you undue grief. Your apology, while somewhat admirable, is unnecessary and is clearly taking up an amount of energy that would be better directed at your place of employment, or your new residence."

Lestrade gaped at him, then another curious thing happened - the man began to laugh. His features softened, became brighter, and his eyes shone. "Oh...oh that's brilliant. God, I should have spoken to you sooner. Got to stop wallowing and move on with my life, yeah? Start focusing on me for a change, and what I actually want." 

Mycroft frowned. This isn't how people normally responded to one of his lengthy observations; they typically began to stutter or burst into tears. Laughter and gratitude were reactions that Mycroft Holmes simply did not induce.

"Well, I guess I'll be off, then... although I am sorry for being an arse before, and for bothering you now...but thank you, Mycroft. You're the only one who didn't pity me...besides Sherlock, of course. But you're so much more..." Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "Sorry, I'm...I'm still wasting your time. Goodbye, Mycroft." 

Then the man was gone. What was left was an odd memory, with another new, and completely unpleasant sensation at hearing Lestrade say "goodbye". His tone had been conversational; he had not been making a grand declaration of permanent absence. Yet it caused such ruminations of what Mycroft's life might be like if Inspector Lestrade suddenly disappeared.

The subsequent sensation was quite unsettling. Mycroft felt his stomach turn, and suddenly his mouth became dry. Something felt alarming, as if he were starting to unwrap a suspicious looking parcel. He could not simply leave it to sit unexamined forever, but starting the process of investigation in this instance was arduous and only promised to increase in strife as time went on.

A digestif would be most appropriate in this situation. Mycroft indulged himself in a lovely Eau De Vie with notes of pear and plum as he found himself repeatedly recalling how Lestrade's smile transformed every line in his face, and how his dark eyes seemed to glisten with a playful sort of roguishness that had not previously been demonstrated.


	2. Tempting

He was interesting. An interesting bloke.

It was impossible not to be fascinated by the Mycroft Holmes. Older brother to a complicated genius, himself a complicated genius. Powerful, confident, dangerous. 

There was something almost...alluring about the man.

Greg ran his thumb around the rim of his empty glass and imagined Mycroft next to him. He'd stare, then sneer, possibly make a remark about his drunkenness. Say something in a foreign language...maybe French. Those grey eyes widening in surprise when Greg would reply back in French. Then maybe a smile.

Four beers was enough to make his thoughts hazy, but Greg was aware of himself enough to note a flutter of excitement at the idea of Mycroft Holmes sitting on his couch, smiling at him.

"Huh." Greg rubbed at his eyes, a strange realization nudging at his conscience. He'd messed around with other men in his younger days. Had a bit of fun with other blokes in the self-pitying weeks after Kate moved out. Usually he didn't feel attraction toward men he knew from work - plus Sherlock could be an utter twat and John wasn't really his type - but the elder Holmes had always fascinated him.

That's what it was - fascination. Nothing more.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

The ghost of Mycroft Holmes followed him around for the remainder of the week.

Greg imagined him commenting on other officers, the disarray of papers on his desk, his unkempt tie knot, everything in that soft droll tone. Greg had to bit his lip a few times to keep from answering an imaginary Mycroft out loud. 

What was this? The detective couldn't make heads or tails of his latest...not obsession, but fixation on the elder Holmes. He envisioned him strolling from room to room, that ever present umbrella hanging from the crook in his right arm, those thin lips pursed in an annoyed grimace. 

Greg realized with a start that he wasn't imagining things this time. The man himself was there, closing the office door behind him and settling into the chair opposite Greg with a dignified flair.

"Detective Inspector." Mycroft crossed one leg over the other and Greg blatantly stared. "I must speak to you regarding an urgent matter involving my brother."

"Hmm?" Greg kept his eyes on those legs. Tall blokes always did it for him. Something about being on top of another male body, grabbing the other man around the hips and guiding strong, masculine legs around his waist...

"Detective Inspector."

"You..." Greg looked him in the eye, feeling stupid. "Hmm?"

Mycroft looked both amused and irritated. "Am I interrupting a mesmerizing thought process? Perhaps I shall occupy more of your attention when I tell you that my brother has, unsurprisingly, found himself and Dr. Watson in a precarious situation. I require your assistance on this matter."

"Erm. Sure."

Mycroft rattled off the details - Sherlock had solved a mystery for a popular theater actor, and in the process disrupted his marriage as well as his friendship with another leading actor. 

"Normally such trivial matters are of no use to me," Mycroft continued, waving his hand dismissively. Greg eyed the long slender fingers and fought an urge to lick his lips. 

"Right. So why...?"

"Geoffrey Alquist's husband Alexander was carrying on an affair with Geoffrey's friend and frequent collaborator, Jacob Reston, who happens to be a very close friend to Samuel Myer...the Prime Minister's nephew." 

"Ah."

"Yes." Mycroft sighed. "I'm afraid Mr. Alquist's inevitable fury has resulted in his contribution of tabloid stories that threaten the security of this nation. Apparently not all conversations between the Prime Minister, his family, and subsequently Mr. Reston and the Alquists have followed the appropriate security clearance. It is imperative that we discover exactly what sort of knowledge has been obtained by the men involved in this intimate trifecta."

Greg frowned. "So you want me to do what, then? Bring them in for questioning?"

"Heavens, no. Blunt pressure would not result in a fruitious manner. I will handle that aspect myself. Your task, Detective Inspector, is to ensure that my brother will not become further involved."

"You want me to babysit."

"That is not..."

"Corral him, then." Greg smirked. "How do you suppose I do this, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft smiled. It was almost genuine. "Distract him with cases. Ask for his opinion, even if it's on matters with which you need no guidance or assistance."

Greg scoffed. "So do as I normally do?"

"In a more concentrated approach." Mycroft stood; their meeting was over. He assumed Greg's cooperation, and Greg wasn't sure if it was flattering or insulting that Mycroft was correct in assuming he'd follow along. 

"Good day, Detective Inspector." Mycroft reached for the doorknob and Greg panicked. 

"Wait."

Mycroft paused and then turned, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Greg looked him over. Handsome, alluring, brilliant. Might as well go for it. "Er. Well. I was wondering if you would like to have a drink sometime? Or, um, dinner?" He swallowed, feeling suddenly warm. "Coffee, maybe. Or...tea?"

Mycroft frowned. "I fail to...see the purpose of such an endeavor." With that, he turned and left.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Greg cursed himself for the rest of the day. Too forward? Too vague? Either way, Mycroft Holmes was not interested. To be fair, Greg didn't know if Mycroft favored other men, but there were times he'd gotten a sort of vibe from the man.

Maybe the whole thing was a misunderstanding.

After work, he stopped at a bakery to get a slice of banoffee pie. Nothing like a bit of sweet to soften the sting of rejection.

He was settled in a corner booth, looking over texts from John (Sherlock was thrilled with Greg's offer to assist with cold cases, which meant he was being unbearable) when he heard a familiar voice.

"You spoil me, my dear."

Greg froze. No. It was not possible.

"Sweets for the sweet." A soft chuckle. "You simply must have their chocolate croissant. It is delectable."

"Delectable? Oh, you tempt me."

_Holy fuck._

Greg slowly lifted out of his seat to see a tall, statuesque man with dark hair and elegant cheekbones gazing seductively at another man which fit the same description, but with light red curls that mimicked his younger brother's famous mane.

Mycroft Holmes. No suit, no umbrella. Buttoned shirt, posh trousers. But more incredible than that - a sexy grin, and a playful, seductive gaze. A look that Greg didn't think Mycroft Holmes was capable of until now.

"You are quite tempting yourself," the man purred. "You've no idea of the thoughts I am having right now."

Mycroft chuckled, and actually _blushed_. "We must not scandalize ourselves, my dear."

"Mmm. Perhaps later, then?" The man leaned in to place a soft kiss on Mycroft's forehead, and Greg sank back onto his seat in shock.


	3. Wicked

A few buttons left undone. A linen shirt and khakis purchased and approved by Anthea. A careful arrangement of his hair, allowing it to maintain his familial curls.

Mycroft was transformed in appearance, and adopted a light gait, nearly striding everywhere he went. The men at that preposterous club Rapscallion's noticed - he'd gotten quite a few appreciative stares, reminding him of university days - and notably, one man was quite interested.

Jacob Reston. 

He'd been known to frequent Rapscallion's, and had been seated at a table by himself when Mycroft had strolled in, the dangled prey in front of the predator. Jacob had watched him, grinning, then sent a drink to Mycroft's table - a tasteful Dubonnet Rouge with a splash of gin - and headed over as soon as the glass touched Mycroft's lips.

"I find myself in a bind," Jacob stated smoothly, standing tall in a silk dark blue shirt and black trousers.

Mycroft had opened his eyes wide, ever the picture of shock and awe. "Oh?"

Jacob's eyes flashed as he took a step forward. "I am utterly unable to leave without discovering all that I can about you," he'd purred. 

Mycroft had chuckled coquettishly, and Mr. Reston was then in his clutches. Jacob Reston, sweetheart of the stage, circling him like a panther, tail twitching. Predictable.

He'd slid in the chair next to Mycroft, putting his arm around the back of his chair, murmuring praise. He moved like a dancer, and had a sharp profile, not unlike Mycroft's, but Jacob had quite the titullating grin. Like a wolf about to devour his prey. It was, truthfully, rather enticing. 

Mycroft had to admit, those green eyes were rather arresting, but he was used to seeing piercing light eyes...either in the mirror or a disdainful gaze from his brother. 

They were not as...warm as Detective Lestrade's. 

It was a new observation, one that was rather alarming. It would not do to ruminate on the charms of Gregory Lestrade.

What was the cause of this newfound observation? Focus, man, there is a task at hand.

Jacob was a younger man, with a dark energy that effused sex. He was not the type to hint at what he wanted, no - he was the sort to lean in and describe, in quite vivid detail, just what he wanted to do with a dollop of cream from the filling of a nearby pastry and very firm, male flesh.

Oh, but this was an assignment, and while intercourse was not forbidden, it would not do to become distracted...

"My..."

That voice. Not Jacob's, something deeper, rougher. A voice like aged brandy.

Mycroft ignored it and made himself blush at Jacob's whispers. "You're wicked," he murmured, trailing a finger down the younger man's sharp jawline. 

Jacob grinned and let the tip of his tongue poke out from the corner of his mouth. "Get something sweet. Anything." He leaned close. "Something with cream."

Mycroft let out a ridiculous giggle. "Goodness..."

"We'll take it with us...to my room. I have quite the view from my balcony. You must see it." Jacob paused and looked past him, frowning. "Hmm. Looks like we've got company."

Mycroft froze. Paparazzi? A fellow agent?

"Mmhmm. Yeah. Definitely." Jacob smirked. "Ex of yours, by the way he's looking at us. Like he wants to throw me into the nearest wall and have you against it."

Mycroft turned and saw the very man who'd been haunting his subconscious. A man who indeed appeared to be the embodiment of a combination of rage, hurt, and lust. 

Gregory Lestrade.


	4. Plans

Well this was a turn up, wasn't it?

Mycroft Holmes, looking downright _fuckable_ , and with another man.

And nevermind that Greg wanted to take Mycroft's hips in his hands and lift him onto a table, and tell him to wrap those legs around Greg's waist and get ready to take his cock. Nevermind how he was clearly on a date with a striking man, one far younger than Greg.

It was the way that man was leering at Mycroft. Like he was a possession. A mere conquest. Not someone to be cherished, worshipped in bed until they were both weeping with pleasure.

It made Greg want to put his fist through the man's smug, perfectly chisled face.

And now Mycroft himself had turned, giving Greg an undecipherable look.

Before Greg could try to determine just what _exactly_ was going on, Mycroft muttered something to his date and headed to Greg's table.

Wanting to appear calm, or at the very least not a jealous, confused mess, Greg spread himself against the back of the booth and met Mycroft's stare. He kept a hand on his coffee mug, gripping the handle tightly as Mycroft approached.

Greg let his eyes roam freely over the other man as he got closer. His hair looked soft, touchable. The clothes he wore seemed the same way - everything about Mycroft screamed "touch me, feel me, _have_ me". 

His expression, however, was less inviting.

"Lestrade," he murmured. "I must ask that you do not disturb me at this time. Cease staring at me and my associate. I am working."

"You could have said," Greg blurted. "You could have told me you had a boyfriend when I asked you out."

Something like shock passed over Mycroft's features. "You...when did you...?"

"He's young," Greg pointed out, immediately hating himself for it. "Looks to be younger than Sherlock." 

Mycroft shook his head. "I do not have the time nor the inclination to discuss the full situation with you."

"Fine." Greg scooped up the last of his banofee pie and shoved it in his mouth. "Go back to your date. And tell him to stop staring at me. I don't like it."

Mycroft stared at him openly, his jaw slightly dropping. "You're...you're angry."

Greg grunted and kept his gaze down. "M'fine," he growled. When Mycroft didn't respond, he looked up, taken aback by the look of shock and... something undecipherable in Mycroft's eyes. 

"You're quite angry," Mycroft breathed. 

"Maybe I am." Greg stared up at him and ran his tongue over his teeth. Mycroft almost gasped - he managed to stop himself - but Greg noticed.

_Interesting._

"I am not..." Mycroft lowered his voice. "I am not romantically entangled with that man, Lestrade. I am, however, working right now, and cannot continue this conversation."

"Working?" Greg's eyes wandered freely all over Mycroft, taking in the exposed skin at his neck, his sensual curls the color of fire.

God, he wanted him.

"Maybe you should stop by later tonight," Greg heard himself saying. "Explain it to me." 

"Explain..." Mycroft looked him over as well, his gaze lingering. 

"Discuss. Talk. Been meaning to talk with you for a while now. A long while." Greg ran his tongue over his lower lip. "Nine o'clock. Come to mine."

Mycroft returned his gaze, then exhaled through his teeth. "Yours?"

"Mine. You know where to find me." Greg looked down at Mycroft's mouth, then back into his eyes. Slowly, a grin formed as he let his most wicked thoughts pierce his imagination. He wanted Mycroft to see it all, and deduce just what exactly they'd be doing in Greg's flat.

"Nine o'clock," Mycroft hissed. With that, he whirled around and stomped toward the younger man, who was smirking at Greg.

Greg returned the smirk and raised his cup of coffee to his lips, sipping slowly.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

A bottle of wine, the lights turned down, windows open so the only sound was distant traffic. Not quite romantic, but Greg wanted to send a message: 'We are going to talk, but first I am going to fuck you. You're going to be taken up against the wall, on my couch, on my bed. You're going to beg me and cry my name. Then you can fuck me, make me come and scream as I take your cock. We'll rest, then do it again, and again.

Then, when we can barely move, we'll talk.'

The flat was mostly clean, but Greg made sure everything looked sorted. He showered, put on jeans and a black buttoned up shirt, imagining long nimble fingers unfastening each one, exposing skin that ached for touch. 

It had been far too long.

Next time there would be candles, maybe dinner. Next time might even be sweet and slow.

But tonight...tonight he'd lay claim to the man who enraptured him.

Greg had a vintage red blend he'd been saving for a special occasion. Bought after the divorce was finalized, he told himself it would be for the next great milestone in his life, something or someone that made him feel joy.

He wanted that to be Mycroft. 

Greg had just gathered two glasses in his hand and set them on the counter when there was a soft knock at the door. 

_Well, then._

Greg smiled, knowing the other man could easily break in if he wanted. But instead, Mycroft opted for politeness. 

"You're a bit early," Greg called out, undoing the locks. "It's only eight thirty..."

_Couldn't wait? Neither can I, you sexy creature. Come in and let me play with you._

When Greg opened the door, his grin faded.

"...Sherlock? John? What...what are you two doing here?"


	5. Mine

"Lights," Sherlock commanded as he entered the flat. "I have something to show you, Lestrade."

"It can wait," Greg snapped, but Sherlock breezed past him. "Sherlock, for fuck's sake..."

John gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Greg, he..." He paused and looked around, his gaze settling on the glasses on the counter. "...Oh." He glanced at Greg and cleared his throat. "Ah, Sherlock..."

Sherlock ignored him. "This concerns the Riverside Slayer, who had..."

"The _Riverside Slayer_?" Greg sputtered. "That...you solved that months ago. The man confessed!"

"You begged me for an explanation of how I managed to solve the crime."

"And you're telling me about this _now_?"

"Yes. Do pay attention, Lestrade. He had an affinity for Pisces women, yes? This suggests a familiarity with their birthdates." Sherlock pulled out a scroll of paper and unrolled it on the counter with a flourish, nearly knocking the wine glasses over. The paper contained a series of barely legible scribbles and various sketches. "Behold. Whilst working on the case, I found a number of..."

"Sherlock."

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes. "What, John?"

John coughed. "We need to leave. Greg is clearly expecting company."

Sherlock frowned and looked over the exasperated detective. He squinted, then blinked. "...Oh."

"Sorry, Greg. He has nothing," John sighed. "He's bored." 

Sherlock huffed and rolled up his paper. "I do not have "nothing". Do not be ludricrious. I have..." He stopped suddenly, and turned to Greg. "Whom are you expecting?"

Greg's blood suddenly ran cold. "Forget it. Just...tell me about what you've found tomorrow, all right?"

Sherlock squinted at him, and Greg tried to think of something, anything besides Mycroft. He concentrated on John's exasperated sigh and fought to stare blankly back at Sherlock's intense gaze. He had a feeling that looking away would tell Sherlock everything.

"Let the man have some privacy!" John tugged on his friend's jacket. "Come on, out. And next time you tell me it's an emergency, it had better be an actual emergency!"

Sherlock scowled and whirled around, stomping out of the flat. John gave Greg a quick grin and followed him out. 

"... Fucking hell." Greg sighed and looked at his watch. Eight forty. Hopefully Sherlock and John would be long gone by the time Mycroft would arrive.

His phone buzzed. Greg braced himself for a dithering text from Sherlock, but it wasn't him.

- _Apologies, Inspector. I will not be visiting your home this evening. -MH_

Greg's jaw clenched. He texted back before he could stop himself. **Spending the evening with your young toy, are you?**

Three dots appeared, flashing for what seemed like forever until Mycroft's response fully arrived. - _The details of my evening are not of your concern. -MH_

"Are you bloody serious?" Greg was ready to send a scathing response when another text arrived.

- _And the answer to your question is no. I am alone. -MH_

Greg scowled and dropped onto the couch. **Then why not come here?**

- _I do not feel it would be... appropriate. -MH_

"Fuck." Greg tossed his phone to the side and stomped into the kitchen. He almost opened the wine, but decided against it and grabbed a beer instead. After opening it he leaned against the counter, drinking and staring into space. 

He was bloody fucking tired of being rejected. 

Greg closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Mycroft wasn't with that smug arsehole tonight. He was alone, but he chose not to come to Greg's flat.

Had he been about to come in when he saw Sherlock and John hanging around?

It was worth finding out. Maybe Mycroft saw his brother leave the flat and it made him change his mind. 

He hurried back to the couch and picked up his phone, sending a quick text before he could lose his nerve. **If you're worried about your brother, don't. This is about you and me.**

Mycroft's reply was quick. - _That is precisely my point. -MH_

**You don't want me.** Greg swallowed hard. Christ, that hurt.

- _I did not say that, Inspector. -MH_

Greg frowned. **It's Greg, Mycroft.**

- _...Greg._

Greg smiled at the lack of initials. Seemed like Mycroft was getting comfortable. **So that guy was part of your work...nothing else?**

- _Indeed._

"Good," Greg muttered. Before he could type something, Mycroft continued. 

- _I do not anticipate my association with him becoming more intimate. I did consider it, before I saw you this evening._

"...Huh." **So you're alone now?**

- _Yes._

Greg smirked. **Got anything on?**

- _Inspector._

"Fair enough." Greg took a chance and pressed CALL.

"Inspector." Mycroft's voice was smooth as ever. "I am curious as to what you hope to accomplish with this phone call."

"Wanted to hear you." Greg settled onto the couch. "Tell me what you're up to."

Mycroft scoffed. "Why on Earth..."

"Hey, you stood me up." Greg pouted. "The least you can do is tell me what you're doing."

"Very well. I confess that the visit to the bakery inspired me. I am currently enjoying a rich chocolate cream liqueur."

Greg moaned, unable to help himself. The idea of the deliciously sweet drink and Mycroft's lips... "Bring it over."

Mycroft exhaled. "Why do you wish for me to visit your home?"

"Because I want you," Greg blurted. "I have for a while. Always watched you. Your hands. That mouth of yours. Those fucking legs. I want you, and it drove me bloody crazy to see you with another man, and I want to feel you. Make you mine."

Silence. Greg winced, feeling dizzy. "... Mycroft?"

A soft click, then the dial tone.

Greg stood for a moment, then walked into the kitchen and poured out the rest of his beer. No more tonight. He'd done the self-pitying, drinking yourself silly thing after his marriage ended. Not again.

Christ, he felt pathetic. Putting himself out there like that. More than once, too. Obviously he was far too stupid to get numerous hints. Mycroft wasn't fucking _interested_. It hurt, and it was going to take a long fucking time to make peace with it, but there it was. The truth.

Minutes passed. They felt like hours. He was ready to turn off his phone and call it a night when it trilled,loudly. An incoming call - MYCROFT H.

Greg answered it, ready to apologise. "Hey, um..."

"Inspector." Mycroft took in a deep breath. "Gregory."

Greg licked his lips. "Yeah?"

"Please open your door and let me in."

Heart pounding, Greg went to the door and opened it to find Mycroft Holmes, clutching a bottle of Rue de La Vaudère's Crème au Chocolat Riche liqueur. His hair was a soft, curly mess, and his tongue poked out and ran over his bottom lip. 

Numbly, Greg stepped aside and watched him enter, taking in his flat - the glasses on the counter, the dimmed lights. Greg slowly turned the lock with a loud click. Mycroft didn't turn. He simply rested the bottle on the counter and headed to the bedroom...somehow knowing exactly where it was. 

Greg followed him, unfastening the button on his trousers as he walked.

Mycroft was waiting in his bedroom, undoing his cufflinks. His eyes wandered over Greg's body hungrily, then met his gaze. He smiled.

Greg growled and practically lunged at him, taking his face in his hands and kissing him. Mycroft gasped, but quickly caught on and returned the kiss, his long fingers stroking Greg's hair. Greg broke the kiss to moan at the sensation. He reached down to fondle Mycroft's erection.

"Oh..." Mycroft's back arched at his touch. "Oh, Gregory..."

"Mine," Greg answered, and he quickly unfastened and pulled down Mycroft's trousers, taking down his pants with them. Greg's mouth watered as Mycroft's cock bobbed free of restraints. Fuck, it was long. He licked his lips and grinned up at the man gasping above him. 

"You ready?" Before Mycroft could reply, Greg leaned forward and slid his length past his lips, sucking him deep. Both men moaned as the head of Mycroft's cock slid over Greg's tongue, nudging at his palate. Greg's hands tightened on Mycroft's hips as he swallowed him down, grunting until he had all of the other man's impressive girth down his throat.

"Oh. Oh god." Mycroft began shaking, his hands in Greg's hair. "Gregory...oh god, yes."

Greg would have smiled, if he was able to. Instead, he began working him, slowly. He didn't want him to come yet, and not like this. Not tonight. They had to fuck tonight. But it had been too long since Greg had swallowed cock, and he'd never had one this big. He was going to enjoy every second of this.

"Greg." Mycroft began shaking as his length pushed down the other man's throat. "Oh god, Greg, yes, yes..."

Too much. Mycroft's cock was throbbing, and while the idea of him coming like this was tempting, Greg's own cock was leaking at the thought of being inside him. Carefully, Greg pulled away, grinning when this made Mycroft whine and push his hips forward. 

"Not to worry, gorgeous." Greg chuckled as Mycroft's wet cock pushed insistently against his mouth. He gave it a long lick and a few kisses. "Mmm. Mine. Good boy." He nuzzled against his cock, whispering to it. "Looks like I've made a friend, yeah?"

"Fuck," Mycroft whispered above him.

"Mmm, we will. I'll make you come, beautiful." Another soft kiss to his tip, letting precome smear on his lips. "So pretty." He stood, and playfully shoved Mycroft on to his bed. 

"Oh!" Mycroft clutched on to the sides of the mattress, his gorgeously pale body writhing on the sheets. "Oh...oh my God..."

"Mmhmm. My Mycroft, my bed. All mine tonight, and whenever I want." Greg quickly undressed himself and crawled onto the bed. Mycroft managed to get his shirt off and stared wild eyed as Greg leaned over him.

"Gorgeous," he breathed. He leaned down for another kiss, petting the soft curls that had captured his attention earlier that night. _Beautiful, sexy, perfect, mine..._

Long legs wrapped around his waist, and Greg's brain short circuited. He broke the kiss with a gasp. "Want you. Have to have you tonight."

"Greg...Gregory. Yes." Mycroft trembled as Greg reached for his bedside table, fumbling for his bottle of lubricant. He smeared a generous amount onto his fingertips and reached in between Mycroft's thighs with a wicked grin. 

"I've been tested, but I have condoms," he murmured as he teased Mycroft's entrance with gentle strokes and pushes. "What do you want, beautiful?"

"You..oh god, you." Mycroft gripped the sheets and clenched around his fingers. "Y-you're clean. Last tested two months ago. No r-recent partners..."

Greg chuckled and crooked his fingers right _there_. "I forgot you know bloody everything."

"Oh! Fuck!" Mycroft whimpered. "I...I haven't...in some time...clean." He looked up at him, eyes wild with lust. "Fuck me, fuck me please!"

"So good," Greg crooned, and carefully withdrew his fingers. He poured out more lubricant, coating his aching erection and placed the bottle back on the table. They might need it again later, or in the morning. 

"Now...now..." Mycroft arched his hips up, pushing himself against Greg's cock. "Please...now..."

"Greedy," Greg whispered, and positioned himself closer. He pushed, slowing when Mycroft whined and clamped down on instinct. Slow, gentle circles on Mycroft's hips seemed to calm him.

"Relax, darling," he murmured. "You are mine. I'm here, and I'm going to take care of you. You're mine. Say it, beautiful."

Mycroft took in a shaking breath and arched beneath him. "I am yours," he whispered, and opened up. 

Greg slid completely inside, his jaw slackening at the sensation. "Holy...fucking...fuck, that's good." Greg shivered, and pushed in just a bit deeper. "Fuck. Tight. Jesus..."

"Greg," Mycroft whined, his legs tightening around him. "Please. Fuck me."

_Oh god._ Greg was light headed at the feel of the deliciously tight warm body beneath him. He began to move, shaking as Mycroft moaned his name and whimpered with each thrust. God, but he was beautiful. Those freckles, that perfect skin...his gorgeous face, features awash in ecstasy.

Long slender fingers slid down his back and gripped his arse, pulling him in deeper. Greg growled and moved just a bit harder. "Yeah? Want more of my cock in you? Feels good?"

"Big," Mycroft moaned. His cock throbbed in between their bodies. "Big, so big, knew you would be."

"Mmm. S'your cock now. And you're mine. Say it."

"Oh fuck...Y-yours."

"Yeah? This tight arse is mine? All mine to play with?"

"God! Oh god, yes!"

Greg moved faster, feeling primal. "All mine to fuck. To taste. Every inch of you is mine. Got that, love? Say it."

Mycroft nearly sobbed. "I'm yours, yours...oh, fuck. Fuck, I'm close!"

"Yeah." Greg grinned and shoved deep into his lover, hissing when the other man nearly screamed in pleasure. "Come on me. Come on my cock. Do it. Want to feel it. Make me come too. Gonna fill you up."

"Oh...oh!" Mycroft's nails tightened on his back as he came, spurting warmth between their bodies. Greg gasped, feeling his own pleasure build.

"Mycroft...oh fuck..." His aching cock jerked as Mycroft's tight muscles squeezed him again, and again, and again... "Fuck...oh Mycroft...fuck, yes!" He held on to the other man and moaned as his cock throbbed and spurted deep into Mycroft, who whimpered at the sensation.

Greg pushed into him deeper, wanting... _needing_ to be as deep inside him as possible. Mycroft pulled him closer, murmuring softly into his ear as Greg shook. His body finished emptying into his lover and he babbled nonsense as Mycroft stroked his hair.

"Shhh...darling." Mycroft shivered and kissed his forehead. "Rest, my darling. My Greg. Rest."

Greg mumbled and wrapped himself around his lover, nearly protesting when he slipped out of his body but was soothed by gentle strokes to his hair.

"Stay," he mumbled, fighting off sleep. "Stay here. Mine."

"Rest," Mycroft whispered. "I am yours, and I will stay. Rest."

Greg smiled, relieved, and let exhaustion lull him to sleep.


	6. Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has gone in a different direction than originally planned, but I have a few twists in mind...

Evening. Late, too late to be considered morning. Darkness. Quiet. A dull ache, not unfamiliar. Memories of university, a sexual awakening. 

The surroundings, however, were quite unfamiliar. 

A bedroom. Slightly unkempt, but not repugnant. No personal photographs or remarkable artwork.

All belonging to the man next to him...

_An almost faded taste of chocolate liqueur. The taste of skin. Sex._

"Christ Almighty," Mycroft whispered. This level of carelessness was unspeakable. It was this damned mission, stirring up things long dormant and ignored. He'd been cautious, dammit, so cautious - keeping his attraction to Gregory Lestrade at bay, enough so that it became a mere curiosity to himself. And now, with the remembrance of his always successful means of seduction, combined with the staggering lustful stares from Lestrade himself, Mycroft was now _here_.

Lying in the man's bed, resting under a rather possessive arm thrown across his chest. Gregory Lestrade himself, face down on a pillow, gently snoring. 

Mycroft felt an ache in his thighs and deeper within himself. He looked down and saw there were body fluids on his chest and a wetness between his thighs. 

"Christ," Mycroft whispered, remembering. _Oh god...inside me. He was inside me...climaxed inside me..._

Greg seemed to sense his unease and grunted. "S'too early. Sleep, love."

"Gregory." Mycroft resisted the urge to panic. "I must leave."

A soft growl and a slight tightening of the arm around him caused his pulse to quicken. "No. Staying. Mine."

_Oh. God._ Mycroft felt his body react rather favorably to the primal display of possessiveness. "Gregory. This was a..."

"No." Greg sat up and stared at him. "Don't say it was a mistake. Don't you dare. This was meant to happen, you and me."

"How..." Mycroft sat up, returning Greg's intense stare with an incredulous one. "How can you possibly reach such a conclusion? This is quite simply..."

"Stop. Stop right there. Last night, you told me you were mine. And you _are_ mine." Greg smiled, and moved closer, lowering his voice to a murmur. "I'm yours, too. You can take me. You can have me. Do you want that, gorgeous? Tie me up? Tie me to your bed...I'll do it. But don't blindfold me. I want to see you. I want to see your face when you slide your cock into me. I'm gonna remember that look forever."

Mycroft's jaw dropped. He was literally rendered speechless.

Greg smirked and peeked under the covers. "Looks like my new friend likes that idea. I'd take care of you, love, but I think you need the rest more."

"For the love of... I cannot stay here!" Mycroft scooted a bit, then winced. "Ah..."

"My, stop." Greg crawled to him and carefully wrapped his arms around him. "Shh, babe. A nice bath, then. C'mon, we both need it. Get you nice and relaxed...."

Mycroft needed to _leave_. It was imperative. But he could not simply run off in his current state, without a proper bathing. 

A quick bath, nothing more.

"I...will acquiesce to your suggestion."

"Mmm." Greg kissed his ear and nuzzled at his neck. "Very good. Now get up, slowly. Got a little eager last night. I'll be more gentle next time, beautiful."

"Oh, god..."

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

The water was warm, soothing. Greg surprisingly had a set of bath oils - a Christmas gift from his mother, who fretted over his stress levels after his divorce.

"Just relax, gorgeous," Greg soothed in a low murmur as he took Mycroft by the hand. It was all very hypnotic, and whether it was exhaustion or shame or a combination of everything, Mycroft couldn't help but succumb to it. 

Greg was gentle, and kind. He bathed them carefully, his touches feather soft. Mycroft was overcome with this sweet seduction, sighing when Greg caressed his thighs. 

"Beautiful," he murmured in his ear, kissing at his temple as Mycroft lay against him. "So beautiful."

Mycroft almost smiled.

Greg insisted on changing the sheets. "Going to put my nice set on for my Mycroft." It was hardly silk, but the thread count was not abhorrent. 

_I must leave. Now. I cannot stay._ Oh, but the bed was warm, and Gregory...those arms were encircling him again. Perhaps just a bit longer.

_Damn that liqueur._

An hour or so later, they both roused to have a small taste of said chocolate liqueur. It lead to flirting, which led to kissing, and Mycroft soon found himself on Greg's lap, gently riding him as the other man's hands wandered. 

"My Mycroft," Greg sighed, and Mycroft silently agreed.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Morning crept up on them. They were entangled in the sheets, completely asleep.

They did not hear Mycroft's phone buzz, nor did they hear the front door open and close...but they did hear something else.

"Lestrade! I found something else on the Riverside Slayer." A familiar voice boomed as it carried across the apartment. 

Both men blinked and exchanged a look of shock. 

"Lestrade, are you still asleep?" Sherlock scoffed as he swung the door open. "You are hopelessly la-"

He stood in shock as the two men cursed and huddled under the covers. "Sherlock!" Greg barked. "Get out! Now!"

The younger man did not hear him. He only stared in mute horror at his brother, who could only stare back in equal alarm.

"For Christ's sake! I told you, Greg has company!" John's voice rang out as the other man entered the flat. He hurried closer, only seeing Sherlock's back. "Fucking unreal. Greg, I'm so sorry..." When John got a look at his bedmate, he also froze in shock. "... Mycroft?"

Greg nearly snarled. "Out. Both of you. Now." 

John grabbed at Sherlock and pulled the stunned man out of the hallway, and the flat. Greg waited until the front door clicked, then reached out to Mycroft.

"My...I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Mycroft stood abruptly, and quickly began to dress. Greg watched him, wanting to stop him, but the elder Holmes was obviously strained. A single utter sound, or movement, could break him.

Instead, Greg watched helplessly as Mycroft once again became the Iceman. A bit disheveled, but cold, calculating, and unfeeling. Mycroft grabbed his phone, and without a word or glance to Greg, turned and left the room. The front door opened and slammed shut. 

Greg was alone. Again.


	7. Acquaintance

**\- Are you all right?**

**-C'mon, answer.**

**-It's not that big of a deal. Okay, they walked in on us but so what??**

**-Mycroft. C'mon.**

**-Please, Mycroft.**

**-I'm still yours.**

All messages were read. No replies.

Greg pocketed his phone and sighed. It was a bloody disaster, Sherlock finding them like that. My was still adjusting to the idea of being with Greg and this had been the worst way possible for them to wake up. Caught, like what they did was wrong.

Mycroft was beautiful. Holding Greg close as they'd made love, staring in wonder up at him. Riding Greg with those long fingers stroking his chest.

Time. Space. Mycroft needed both. But fuck, if he retreated back into himself and went back to ignoring Greg...

No. That wouldn't happen.

Greg wouldn't let that happen.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

"Sir?"

"Mmm." Mycroft kept his focus on his notes as Anthea set a cup of tea down next to him. His body ached. Every movement forced him to think of Lestrade. 

"You were correct about Reston. He returned to the club after your final interaction in the hotel lobby." Anthea cleared her throat. "I'd sent you a message last night, but..."

"It was received," Mycroft replied coolly, and sipped at his tea. "I was preoccupied. I do not anticipate any further distractions."

Anthea nodded slowly. "And you plan to see Reston again this evening?"

"Indeed."

"I see."

Mycroft looked up and stared his assistant in the eye. "Care to elaborate on your tone, Miss Kelton?"

Anthea smiled sadly. "Inspector Lestrade..."

"Has nothing to do with this evening's plans."

"...He is a detective. A good one. And, might I add, a good man."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Your point?"

Anthea seemed to choose her next words very carefully. "He is not the type to be easily deterred. Perhaps he..."

"Enough." Mycroft set his cup down and glared at her. "You will not speak of this again."

"It is only that I wish to..."

"To what?"

Her sad smile returned. "To see you happy, sir."

Abruptly he stood and walked out of the office, closing the door firmly behind him.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Jacob Reston was gorgeous. Bastard.

Greg stared miserably at the pictures from his web search. Christ, when did he get so old? He'd gotten slower, grayer, and here was this twit with perfect cheekbones, dark hair, and beautiful eyes, the color of emeralds. 

_Christ. No wonder._

Mycroft wasn't answering his texts. Greg had sent a few to Sherlock and John, even, but nothing from them either. It was like he was being punished for wanting Mycroft Holmes. 

_Fuck to all that._

Last night wasn't just a fling. He'd had those before, waking next to a stranger. 

Mycroft Holmes was no stranger. He was gentle, curious, passionate. Jacob Reston didn't know the Mycroft that had slept soundly in Greg's arms, satisfied and safe. 

No one knew that man, it seemed. Except Greg.

_Mine. My Mycroft._

The phone buzzed with a text, startling him. 

**Cuore del Mare. Six thirty.**

**A car will be waiting for you. Dress well.**

**Do not be discouraged, Inspector.**

The number was private.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Warm skin, gentle hands holding his hips, guiding him. Slow rocking. A slight gasp as he's lowered, filled. His lover sighing with him, gazing fondly as they made love.

_"Gregory...darling..."_

"Tell me."

Mycroft looked up, frowning. "Yes?"

Jacob smiled, his teeth glinting in the candlelight. "Your thoughts, you beautiful creature. They are not here, with me."

"Oh." Mycroft cleared his throat. "I do apologise..."

Jacob chuckled. "I think I know. That man we saw last night. Your ex. Handsome." He took a long sip of wine and smirked. "Much older, but handsome."

Mycroft attempted to hide a sneer with a smile. _Gregory Lestrade is beautiful, you ignorant fool. He is more of a man than you ever could hope to be._ "An acquaintance. Not an ex-lover."

"Could have fooled me." Jacob narrowed his eyes. "Is he why you did not come to my room last night? Tell me I'm mistaken."

Mycroft suppressed the urge to clench his jaw. "You are mistaken. I told you, my dear, I grew tired."

"Mmm. Well. No more wine for you then." Jacob plucked Mycroft's glass and set it next to his own. "Tonight, you will join me in my room. There will be plenty of time to rest after we've...become acquainted with one another."

Before he could reply, a movement caught Mycroft's eye. The doors of the restaurant opened, and in walked Gregory Lestrade.

His best suit. Gray, slim. Tailored. Worn rarely, often reserved for special occasions. The cuffs were new - the shine on them glinted as Greg fiddled with them absently as he scanned the room.

Soft brown eyes fell upon his, and he paused. His shoulders lifted as he took a deep breath. Mycroft watched as Greg smiled slightly. 

_There you are._

"Excuse me a moment," Mycroft muttered, and stood.


End file.
